a midnight tale from beneath a mountain
There was a picture from Yogyakarta, sent by a friend. It was waiting for me in my inbox. A picture of a kepala desa, a village chief, singing dangdut for the entertainment of his displaced villagers.
The picture was grainy, taken with a camera that came with an old phone. Old ladies sat by the side, almost outside the picture frame. Children seemed to run around, with their too-big clothes on their too-thin bodies. Yet, their vibrancy reached out, their shadowed face frozen in time, caught in a moment of delight.
Were they playing tag?
My friend wrote that the village chief's voice wasn't very good. But his efforts paid off. Even for a while. There was, my friend noted, an emptiness as people filed back into their makeshift refuge, as he stood in the middle of the emptying square.
Meanwhile, living in close quarters, being on their toes almost all the time, high strung, mostly sleep deprived, and often left bereft of support from central agencies... these began to take their toll on the volunteers on the ground.
Tensions began to rise, at least that was what I was able to fathom beneath the tight words and brusqueness when conversing with said friend. More than a few have already seen their personal relationships fall apart as they paid more and more attention to the task at hand, and less to those waiting at home.
I wonder whether there would be comprehensive counselling for these volunteers, most of them unattached to any organizations, free agents, so to speak. I know that certain agencies have PTSD counselling built into their volunteering programmes, as found within the police and other defence forces. But I do wonder for those without.
The angry mountain spared no one, it seemed.
Not even infants, not even anyone.
Between the almost disjointed reports and notes from where I wasn't --some sterile and dry of any frivolity, some almost happy, some definitely uplifting, others closer to melodramatic purple prose-- was a story about twins.
They came to a certain refugee camp with their mother, fatherless with no extreneous explanation. Last night, they were found abandoned, their mother disappeared as if into thin air, despite the near frantic searching and rather fine-combing by volunteers and fellow refugees. Not yet forty days old, both infants relied on the kindness of strangers.
They're still keeping an optimistic outlook though, as it was only 24 hours since their mother's sudden disappearance. Everyone's trying to think good thoughts. Maybe she would return, maybe she left because she was going to search for other relatives (missing or otherwise). The babies are healthy, and hope is still high in the air. They prayed that these little souls will know happiness.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.
The picture was grainy, taken with a camera that came with an old phone. Old ladies sat by the side, almost outside the picture frame. Children seemed to run around, with their too-big clothes on their too-thin bodies. Yet, their vibrancy reached out, their shadowed face frozen in time, caught in a moment of delight.
Were they playing tag?
My friend wrote that the village chief's voice wasn't very good. But his efforts paid off. Even for a while. There was, my friend noted, an emptiness as people filed back into their makeshift refuge, as he stood in the middle of the emptying square.
Meanwhile, living in close quarters, being on their toes almost all the time, high strung, mostly sleep deprived, and often left bereft of support from central agencies... these began to take their toll on the volunteers on the ground.
Tensions began to rise, at least that was what I was able to fathom beneath the tight words and brusqueness when conversing with said friend. More than a few have already seen their personal relationships fall apart as they paid more and more attention to the task at hand, and less to those waiting at home.
I wonder whether there would be comprehensive counselling for these volunteers, most of them unattached to any organizations, free agents, so to speak. I know that certain agencies have PTSD counselling built into their volunteering programmes, as found within the police and other defence forces. But I do wonder for those without.
The angry mountain spared no one, it seemed.
Not even infants, not even anyone.
Between the almost disjointed reports and notes from where I wasn't --some sterile and dry of any frivolity, some almost happy, some definitely uplifting, others closer to melodramatic purple prose-- was a story about twins.
They came to a certain refugee camp with their mother, fatherless with no extreneous explanation. Last night, they were found abandoned, their mother disappeared as if into thin air, despite the near frantic searching and rather fine-combing by volunteers and fellow refugees. Not yet forty days old, both infants relied on the kindness of strangers.
They're still keeping an optimistic outlook though, as it was only 24 hours since their mother's sudden disappearance. Everyone's trying to think good thoughts. Maybe she would return, maybe she left because she was going to search for other relatives (missing or otherwise). The babies are healthy, and hope is still high in the air. They prayed that these little souls will know happiness.
Posted via m.livejournal.com.